


Ever After

by wingeddserpent



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/wingeddserpent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the dust settles, Agrias makes a place for herself. It's not as lonely as she assumes it will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FireEye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireEye/gifts).



> For the prompt: Agrias Oaks. I myself greatly enjoy exploring the settling down or the on the run civil upheaval atmosphere of the post-game timeline, but if you want to delve into something during the game or pre-game, I wouldn't be opposed. As always, Agrias/Mustadio or Agrias/Orlandu would make me happy, or both if you wanted to get tricky, as would vestiges of Agrias/Ovelia, but gen is perfectly fine.

Afterwards, they scatter. Only siblings cling to one another as the world falls apart, while the rest choose a direction and go. They cannot afford to be found, for the fate awaiting heretics is an unpleasant one, and staying in a group could result only in being caught. 

Agrias travels by foot, stopping in towns only when no other choice lies before her. She settles near Ordalia, in a town called Ertil. At first, she stays a time in the inn to ensure it is safe, and then buys a house with her remaining gil. The people of Ertil ask few questions of her. When anyone asks, she tells them her name is Bryde.

* * *

She becomes a mercenary, but follows her own way. Memories of Gafgarion weigh heavily upon her and she uses his treachery as a guide to keep her on the right path. Agrias refuses to steal or kidnap, and she will not kill without good cause. Never again shall she be the tool of unknown masters. 

As time passes and she takes more contracts—such as delivering caravans safely to their destinations or attacking the knights of a corrupt lord in Ordalia proper—people begin to call her Lady Steel.She does nothing to dissuade them. Mayhap it is a danger to make such a name for herself, but it is good gil and better work. 

One night, as she is drinking in the tavern and listening to the townspeople tell stories, a letter arrives for her.The milky white envelope has Lady Steel written on it in beautiful, even handwriting that she does not recognize. Inside, the letter reads:

_Dear Lady Steel,_

_If you have another name, I have not heard it and for that, I apologize profusely. They say that you champion justice for a price. My children and I find ourselves in most dire need of such justice. Three months ago, my husband left on a quest for treasure and he never came back. It seems unfair for my children to live life bereft of a father, should there be any chance left that he lives. Please, Lady Steel, I shall pay you five hundred gil for your services. Please, I beseech you, find my husband._

_I live in the town of Gryh. Simply ask for me at the inn._

_Sincerely,_

_Anise Evans_

She stows the letter away, drinks another mug of mead, then returns to her house. As always, her home is dark and empty: it comprises of three rooms, a living area and two bedrooms, only one of which she has ever used. Agrias settles immediately into her bed, curling beneath the blankets.

* * *

The following morning, she departs. Gryh is a three-day chocobo ride into Ordalia, and Agrias goes swiftly, stopping only when her steed falters or when she herself must rest. The second night, she pitches her camp beneath the boughs of a great tree and stays awake with the remembrance of many nights like this, in days now past. There are no whispered words from her companions, no dark shapes at the edge of her camp where two or more people would be on watch. It is merely this chocobo she has rented and her against the night and all that stirs it. The absence of others is not new to her, but this night, she finds herself aching with the loss. 

In the end, she decides as the lavender dawn blooms over the horizon, she merely hopes everyone is safe.

That day, she rides the rest of the way to Gryh. The town is small—mayhap two dozen wooden houses, a Church, and the landlord’s estate. Their fields grow cabbage, beans, and wheat, though some have been left fallow. She arrives at the tavern, where a group of men drink a strong-smelling green tea that cannot be from a local source. "I am in search of Anise Evans,” she offers, trying to appear less threatening than the knight sword sheathed on her back indicates. 

As ever, no one is fooled, tensing at the danger she poses. "And you are?" asks the tavern owner. 

"Bryde, though mayhap you know me as Lady Steel,” she responds, not going any nearer, "I am a mercenary she looks to hire. I believe that her husband has gone missing in search of treasure?"

"Aye," says the barkeep, sizing her up. 

After a moment, she seems to pass his test, for he puts down a mug of tea and gestures for her to sit before it. One of the men, a willowy sort with cropped red hair and a bushy beard that makes him seem older than she suspects he is, asks, "Do ya think ya could find him, truly?"

"I believe that I shall do my best," she takes a measured sip of her tea, to find it is not half as bitter as the smell suggests, "That is all that I can promise. I do not make promises I cannot keep."

(And it is a lie, for she promised to protect Ovelia, did she not? But, in the end, only Delita could be what Ovelia needed. Agrias will forever be indebted to him for that. A dagger is of little consequence in the scheme of the world, and that was all she could offer Ovelia.)

A wizened old man sitting nearby nods, his trembling hands all covered in dark age spots. "Ronald has always been an adventurous sort—and he never listened to anyone who said that his galavanting would bring grief to his wife and children. Anise, Ajora's blessings rain upon her, knew what she was getting into when she married him--but she don’t deserve it. She is a good, devout woman."

Were Agrias given to blatant displays of emotion, Ajora's name would make her flinch. But she merely nods, as though devoutness is the trait she looks for in a woman as well, for she wishes to start no quarrel here. "Where might I find her?"

"She's out in the fields," says a burly one-eyed man in the corner, “I’ll show you, if you'd like, Lady."

Jaffery, as her guide is called, leads her out into the fields, where it seems to be the end of harvest. It surprises her, then, that so many were in the tavern at the height of the work season. "Anise," he calls, and a woman dressed in plain brown clothes, her tumble of long blonde hair pulled back with a green kerchief, comes to them.

At the sight of Agrias, dressed in armor with a sword on her back, she asks, in a low, resonant voice that reminds her of Meliadoul, "Lady Steel?"  

"Aye. Mayhap it would be better for me to come back later. After you have finished with the day's work?" Agrias asks, watching as Jaffery positions himself between herself and Anise. 

"No! No! They will understand, please," Anise gestures at Agrias to follow, then takes her to stand before one of the houses in the middle of town. "You have come to help me?"

The woman sounds educated, the kerchief of fine make, and Agrias begins to suspect that Anise is more than a simple farmer of an agrarian community. But she says only, "Indeed. I will need to know the specifics of your husband's venture--then I shall do all I can for you, ma'am."

With a sigh of relief, Anise passes over a purse that clinks with gil. Jaffery grimaces, but says nothing, allowing Anise to explain. "That is 250 gil,” she bites her lip, "The other half, I will give you when my husband is returned to me or you give me some proof of his fate.” 

Her eyes well with tears, but Anise does not weep. Instead, she tells Agrias of her husband, Ronald Evans. The village had fallen on hard times due to famine last year and people had been going hungry. So,Ronaldbegan traveling, abandoning village and family, both. For a time, he took odd jobs, sending back whatever gil he managed to scrounge together in letters to his wife. However, three months ago, he'd written a letter stating he was going to northern Ordalia. Outside a city called Faranas, there was a tower atop a mountain said to be filled with treasure. After that letter, Anise had heard no more of her husband. "Please, Lady Steel. Please say you'll look for him?"

"I have given my word already," Agrias smiles, reaching out to clasp the woman's shoulder. "I will do all in my power to find him."

"You have my thanks. We of Gryh have little we can offer you, but have you need of food or shelter for the night—“

Agrias shakes her head. "Provisions for my chocobo will be more than sufficient. I am supplied."

* * *

Faranas is four days north, but she does not push her chocobo. They take five days, stopping in nearly every settlement along the way so that Agrias can give description of Ronald.  There are some who remember seeing him, so she knows he at least made it this far. Faranas is a larger town, more akin in size to Goug. The tavern is clean and well-kept, with a large group of people—men and women—gambling in one of the back rooms. Agrias notices the tension that rises with her arrival, people's eyes following her approach to the bar. 

"I am looking for a man named Ronald Evans,” she says, carefully placing her hands flat against the counter. 

A woman nearby snorts. "Him? Dead fer sure, that one."

"He went after that damn treasure," says the barkeep.

Agrias inclines her head. At least she knows he has made it this far, but it all depends what awaited him upon the mountaintop in his search for treasure.She asks, "What do you believe he found there?"

"A troll guards that treasure," explains a man who looks to be a mercenary too, a large mace upon his back and dressed in well-crafted armor.

Everyone in the tavern seems to have theories of what befell Ronald and warnings about why she should turn back. The other mercenary cocks his black bushy eyebrow at her, resting his elbows on the bar as he downs his drink. "So, miss, who are you and why are you interested in that fool?" derision hides beneath sweet syrup tone. 

She bristles, but says, her voice low and even, "I am called Lady Steel, that is name enough, I believe," she tilts her head to the side, "I have been hired to search for him on behalf of his family."

"Oh, and you haven't any interest in the treasure, then?" his lips curl back. 

Agrias turns to leave, shrugging. "Regardless of my intent towards it, I need not inform you of it."

* * *

Her chocobo remains in the Faranas stable as she sets off up the mountain, which turns out to be a good choice. The mountain path is unkempt and rocky—her bangs hang with sweat in her face, so that she has to stop to re-braid her hair. Sweat trickles down the small of her back as she continues up and up, sometimes having to climb small cliffs where the path has collapsed. At the top of the mountain, she can just make out the dark half-ruined tower where legend dictates the treasure is. 

After a time, she stops beside a tree to rest, her chest heaving with exertion, and it is then she sees the first skeleton. It is something straight out of one of the ghoststories that Malak had so loved to tell, that she nearly laughs, because it is completely absurd that something like this actually exist. She takes a deep breath, then moves to examine the bones: they seem to have been splintered by a great force. Troll seems a likely summation of the person’s cause of death. 

Agrias starts again on her trek, though with more caution now. The sky darkens to a bruised purple not long after and every sound has her pulse thundering. It is then Agrias realizes that, besides her own labored breathing from her journey, there is no noise of another living creature in the vicinity—no owls, no coyotes, nor aught else. She breaks from the rough path she follows and then sits. Naked blade resting over her lap, her grip tight around the hilt, Agrias rests. Every sound wakes her and she cannot help but wish that someone was here to watch her back.

Her dreams that night are troubled with explosions and Lucavi, but the nightmares are familiar bedfellows. Each time she wakes, bathed in sweat and panting, she expects to find herself in camp with the others. Hands trembling, she takes a swig of her canteen—she cannot forget the heat of the fire, the bright flash of light, the darkness of Murond. Meliadoul had grabbed her hand and tugged her forward, even as Agrias could not—had stalled, bile in her throat from horror as the world—exploded. Beneath the stars, part way up a mountain far away, Agrias thinks for a wistful, horrible second that she can feel the warmth of Meliadoul’s fingers on her palm. She sleeps again, dreams this time of Ovelia on the executioner's bloc and when next she wakes, trembling with the urge to shout her grief, Agrias can only hope that Ovelia is safe and happy now, with Delita. Agrias does not sleep again.

Just before dawn breaks across the horizon, Agrias rises. The road becomes even harsher the farther she goes—and the trek goes so slowly, she considers stripping out of her armor, but with the possibility of a troll nearby, she dares not risk it. 

Around midday, as she nibbles disinterestedly on some of her bread, she hears something heavy being dragged over the rock-covered mountain-scape. Agrias stills, holding her breath, and hears the loud crunch of a giant creature's footsteps. Slowly, trying to move as stealthily as one can in full-armor, she presses forward, enough to peer over the small ledge that is nearly tall as her chin. And lumbering closer and closer is the troll. Agrias sucks in a breath through her nose—now or never. Ridding the mountain of this troll will make her search easier, at the least. 

But she stalls—because she needs a plan, she cannot expect to defeat a troll by herself without one, but each second brings the beast nearer. And if she does not move now—she unsheathes her sword and the troll roars at the baring of steel. It sights her and jumps down from the ledge, lands in front of her and she steps back, grip white-knuckled on the hilt of her sword. The troll stands easily eight feet tall, weighs mayhap four-hundred pounds, and has skin of a grey-olive hue; in its hands is a large wooden club inset with bits of metal shrapnel, caked with dried blood. 

Agrias waits, breath caught in her chest as the beast lumbers forward, lashing out at her with its weapon. Thankfully, trolls do not seem blessed with exceptional speed, as she dodges the club easily, darting forward in the opening to attack the troll, her sword barely scraping its side, before the beast’s other hand connects with her chest—she flies back, rolling down part of the path. Rocks and pebbles bounce down with her. Head ringing, she cannot stand quick enough. The troll reaches her before she can move, slamming the club down—and she barely rolls out of the way. Dust rises with the force of the blow, and she clambers to her feet, sighting her sword farther down the path. Agrias runs for it, turning her back on her foe, because what use is she without a sword?

Her breaths cut through her in jagged pants, while the troll crashes after her, roaring its fury, swinging at her wildly with that club, and what can she do? What can she do, save what she has been made to do? Agrias has not—has not used her powers since separating from Ramza and the others.It was too dangerous, too likely someone would find her, for how many holy knights are there? How many women have the powers she herself possesses? Agrias bends down to lift her sword, even as the troll charges from behind, and her hands close around the hilt, just in time. She whirls—smites the beast with crackling holy magick—and it roars, roars in pain as its flesh sizzles and burns. The troll falters for long enough for her to take three steps back, long enough for her to call the singing lightning to the tip of her sword. And she watches the troll stagger with the second attack, far too close for comfort; she turns to run, to get out of the way because the troll is going to fall, but it lashes out and hits her torso, sends her flying down the side of the mountain, rolling and bouncing, and her sword flies out of her hand again. Agrias’s head strikes a particularly large rock as she falls—but she stays aware just long enough to hear the troll keen, then the crash of its fall.

* * *

"Hullo? You alive, miss?" comes a voice and Agrias awakens to the drizzle of cool water on her face, "You took quite a fall."

She jerks, her hands wrapping round the person's neck. Her lower back burns at the sudden motion, her shoulders groaning, and everything aches enough that she sucks in a deep, steadying breath as her vision clears. The person in her grip is a man, with dark green eyes and face mostly obscured by an unkempt black beard. "Ronald Evans?" she croaks, removing her hands from his neck, then fumbling for her canteen.

"Aye, I am him," he tells her, helping her with the canteen, and then watching her gulp down water, drops escaping down her chin. 

"Your wife," Agrias caps the canteen, then tries to stand—the world bursts with spots, so she stops, panting. “Your wife sent me to bring you home.”

His face splits into a grin, and where before she might have put his age at forty, now she thinks him thirty. "Really? I can go home? Ajora be praised, I had truly thought I would be stuck in that cave forever! I got stuck there by that troll when I was hunting for treasure. No matter how I tried to escape, he always seemed to be waiting for me. Probably hungry, you know," he says, looking to where the troll's corpse lay in a pool of its own blood. 

"You hid in a cave for three months?"

Ronald shrugs. "More like two. It took me a month or so to get here, because I kept asking people for information on the treasure on the way," she arches her eyebrow at him, then he shakes his head. "The tales of treasure were greatly exaggerated. There's no treasure here, though I took a few vials of troll's blood. That'll sell for a premium, that will."

"Let us not linger, then,” she tells him, and he grasps her hand to help her up.

* * *

It takes them a full day to return to Faranas, though the going is easier now with Ronald as her guide. She still does not move quickly, still sore from her fall. Ronald does, however, carry her armor so Agrias may push forth unencumbered. When they reach the city, the townspeople gather to stare at them. "You've returned," says one of the women, "What of the troll?"

"Dead," says Ronald, cheerfully, holding up one of the vials. 

Agrias asks, “May we have rooms for the night?”

Better than that, they are fed as well. Agrias eats more than her fill as Ronald regales the tale of her killing the troll more and more elaborately. She cannot help but laugh. Though she sits right there, by the end of the night, everyone believes her to be a ten-foot tall giantess with skill in swords, poles, maces, magick, and with powers granted by Ajora himself. Luckily, no one seems to suspect the truth of her victory. 

When she leaves their revelry for bed, people attempt to stall her—and one man even propositions her, though backs down after a single look. Agrias falls heavily into bed and sleeps as though dead.

* * *

Agrias returns Ronald to his family, then leaves for her home. When she arrives, she finds a holy symbol scratched into the dirt outside. So she is unsurprised when she enters to find Orlandu sitting at her table, sipping a cup of tea. He is much as she remembers—tall and lean, muscular, , his brown cloak hanging over the back of his chair. "How have you been?” he asks.

She lays her sword on the table, and removes her own cloak. "Well," she says, though she moves stiffly still from her fight with the troll and days of riding. "And you?"

"Well enough. I hear you have made quite a name for yourself," and mayhap there is disapproval there—for she is not exactly keeping her head low. 

But he says nothing more on that, merely watches as she makes herself a mug of tea. "Where has this past year led you, Orlandu?"

For the first time since she arrived, he smiles. He leans  more comfortably in his chair. "To tell the truth," he says, idly scratching his beard with a fingertip, "Much the same as you. I mostly have been guarding caravans and refugees. Romanda is in a state of civil unrest, so I do what I can to help the people.”

Agrias sips her tea. There is so much to ask and she knows not how long he intends to stay. As she puts down her mug, he reaches over the table and clasps her hand in his. His hand is warm, palm dry, and she can feel her same callouses mirrored on his flesh. Agrias holds him tightly. "You are injured," he says, nodding to the bruises adorning her face. 

“Such is the risk of fighting trolls,” replies Agrias, smiling, even as he lets go of her hand.

And he laughs—even though she has never been humorous. Jokes were not taught to orphan girls in monasteries. "Indeed," Orlandu pauses a moment, examining her, "You are being careful?"

She does not need to ask what he means. “Yes. I have only used my gift once since…” she stops, feels a lump in her throat, then shakes her head. "Do you have word of any of the others?"

He nods. "Yes. I have spent much of the last few months checking in on those I could find. I would advise that you not do the same. It is still dangerous for us to meet—even with Delita and Ovelia as monarchs."

"...She will make a good Queen," murmurs Agrias, feels that old longing.

But it cannot be. There is not place for her at Ovelia’s side. Agrias clenches her fists and Orlandu pats her wrist, his eyes softening. “I believe she will be, as well. You have done all you can for her," he says, then moves to stand. "I brought dinner. I am afraid it is nothing elaborate, but it should take off the edge of your exertion."

 He makes an egg dish, which she eats without much tasting. Orlandu is not the best cook, but he certainly is not as terrible as Rafa was. As they eat, he tells her more of where the others have gone, as far as he knows it. Rafa and Malak have ended up far to the west, where they tend the garden of a Church. It surprises Agrias somewhat, but then she smiles, because, as ever, Malak would do anything for his sister. Alicia and Lavian are to the east, settled as a blacksmith and a barkeep. Drew is teaching young children to the south how to read, while Osryk has become a traveling minstrel. Meanwhile, Nicia re-enlisted in the Ordalian army and Dyanabecame a drunkard in a town to the north. Orlandu shakes his head, "I believe that Reis and Beowulf have been traveling—keeping dragons from attacking settlements. Worker 8 went back to stay with Mustadio's father, I believe. I know naught of any of the others."

Agrias nods, wonderingwhat became of the others, hopes they are doing well. Her eyes begin to droop partway through her meal, but she tries to shake it off, tries to ignore it, because somehow she knows that when she wakes, she will be alone, because of course Orlandu cannot stay and she cannot ask him to. 

"You need rest," he tells her, breaking the comfortable silence, "A troll is a formidable foe indeed."

And she feels a child again, not wanting to sleep even as exhaustion tugs her away. "Thank you for your visit," she says, as she rises. 

"We shall see each other again."

It is a promise she will cling to. 

When she wakes the next morning, Orlandu is gone, his symbol outside her door scuffed out.

* * *

Spring comes again, and for the first time since moving to Ertil, Agrias finds herself at home for St. Ajora’s day. She wakes to cheery music—flutes, fiddles, and other instruments—just as the sun rises. 

After dressing, she goes to stand on her doorstep, watching the townspeople celebrate. Everyone seems to be dressed in the traditional greens and yellows, boys and girls twirl and laugh. The elders gather outside the Church and one of them begins to recite scripture from memory. Some of the adults lay out tables laden with food and spirits—and everyone is smiling, laughing in the sunlight.

Agrias leans against her door as the Church bells toll. The boys and girls spin, the men and women drink, the elders read—and Agrias shuts her eyes.

When she was young, a child in a monastery miles out from the nearest town, St. Ajora’s day had been her favorite. The monks had lessened the restraints upon her, there had been better food—one of the monks had even allowed her a piece of candy—and there had been no lessons. Her and the other children had run outside to gather wildflowers, which one of the sisters had adorned the monastery with. And as night approached, they had all risen their voices together in song. 

But, Agrias turns away from the festivities. She is glad they are happy; however, she cannot rejoice with them. She goes back into her house, spends the day reading about the practical applications of time magick. Their revelry does not distract her.

* * *

Not long after, Agrias returns to Ertil after helping a nearby town recover from a flood. Gerod, the town blacksmith, stops her. “Aye, Lady Bryde, there’s a man in yer house. He had a key an’ all, but nobody ever saw ‘im before. Didn’t want ya to be surprised, is all. Ye need any help?”

“What did he look like?” she asks, dismounting from her chocobo. 

“Tall an’ skinny, blond, long-haired… Dressed in yeller,” he pauses, mouth quirking into a bit of a smile, “Wasn’t able to sneak fer his life.”

Agrias relaxes. “I see. I believe he is a friend. Thank you, for watching out for me.”

Mustadio does not stir when she enters her home. He sleeps face-down in her bed, pressed into her pillow, still in his clothes though he did remove his boots. With care, she sets to stripping out of her armor. Agrias begins on dinner: slicing a loaf of bread,  and laying out strips of jerky, along with slices of cucumber and carrots. 

Partway through her pulling out the plates, he wakes with a groan. “Agrias…?” he blinks at her for a moment, sleep clinging to his fair lashes, then he looks down at where he has left a wet spot on her pillow. “Oh… Sorry. I… um… I didn’t mean to fall asleep in your… There wasn’t another bed, and I just… um…” his cheeks color red, eyes still half-lidded. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says, arranging food on the plates. 

Mustadio yawns, mouth wide, and he manages to stand, finally wiping away the film from his eyes. “I brought apples. Want me to add them to dinner?”

She nods, and shortly thereafter, he settles beside her, using a small knife to core and slice the apples. For a moment, the concern his fatigue will make him sloppy rises, but then, with a smile, she remembers he is nothing if not clever-fingered. “How’ve you been?” he asks, glancing at her. 

“Well,” she responds, unwrapping goat cheese she had bought earlier and splitting it between the two plates. “Yourself? Orlandu had heard naught of you.”

“I don’t think my adventures are nearly so grand as those of Lady Steel,” Mustadio says with a laugh, dividing the apple slices between them. 

Dinner is simple, familiar, easy—and she finds herself often examining his face. His hair has grown out past his collarbones, though he still ties it back. Now, he wears a yellow cotton shirt of fine make, and high-quality breeches. His boots, sitting muddy beside the door, are the same. Mustadio grins at her, and while there are more lines feathered around his mouth and eyes, she thinks that his smile is the unchanged. “What adventures have you had?”

“I’ve just been traveling. Finding bits of ancient machines, mostly. Ran into a couple of people, Rafa and Malak, Dyana, and Drew,” he shrugs, standing to help her clean the dishes. 

Somehow, even in the small space of her home, they both fit without colliding. “It is good to see you again,” she manages, as she finds extra blankets for him to use, since she has no other bed to offer him. 

With a smile, he reaches out and clasps her shoulder. Suddenly, swallowing becomes a struggle and she can only smile in return. 

Agrias expects him to leave quickly, as Orlandu had, but Mustadio stays. He sleeps in the other bedroom, in his bedroll and with all of her extra blankets, despite her insistence he can have the bed. 

As ever, he is a better cook than she, so he makes most of their meals as he coaxes stories of her adventures out of her. “The troll swung me off the cliff with his club, just as I had managed to smite him,” Agrias shrugs, “The man I had been searching for was hiding in a cave, and after that, I returned him to his family.”

Mustadio whistles, seasoning the rabbit meat. “A troll? I don’t think I could’ve beat a troll by myself.”

With a smile, she says, “I believe it might have been easier for you, in fact. You would not have needed to approach as closely as I did, with your marksmanship.”

Pink tinges his cheeks and his gaze drops to the meat. She sets to chopping the vegetables: leeks, carrots, potatoes, and onions. “So… I’ve heard word of some more machine parts somewhere nearby…” he says, “I was wondering if you wanted to come with me…?”

With a smile, she says, “Of course.”

“Great. We’ll go tomorrow?”

Agrias nods at him, turning her attention back to the vegetables. 

It ends up being more of a picnic. The two of them try to excavate more ancient machinery, but they find only a few pieces worth taking with them. For the rest of the day, they lay out in the grass and bask in the sun. 

Mustadio tells her of the time he won 3,000 gil gambling in a tavern and had to escape from town by dressing as a woman, and somehow the sound of his voice and the heat of the day lulls her to sleep. For the first time in a long time, she does not dream of Murond. 

He wakes her in the late afternoon, eyes half-lidded from his own nap and hair mussed. “Wanna head back?” he asks her, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Aye,” she says, and they return to her home with little to show for their venture save the peacefulness that accompanies an afternoon nap. 

Agrias feels warm in a way she has not felt in what seems years, though she knows it has hardly been so long. That night, she makes a dinner comprised mostly of meat and potatoes, and they eat it talking of nothing in particular. She recounts a particularly fond memory of a spar with Malak, and Mustadio grins at her. “Bet you showed him a thing or two.”

“Or two,” she responds, arching an eyebrow at him. 

He laughs and if she sees her own wistfulness for days past mirrored in him, she says nothing of it. 

* * *

Her house feels empty once he leaves again. Mustadio stays only a week, but it seems longer and her home seems—incomplete without him in it. The morning after his departure, she makes breakfast for two out of habit and shares the extra with one of the children she finds on her way to the well.

* * *

Three weeks after Mustadio goes, Agrias paints her house pastel green. The townspeople watch her work and offer her mead or water when they pass. Tatiana, the village seamstress, asks, “So does that mean you intend to stay with us, Lady Bryde?” 

Agrias can only shrug, paint staining her fingertips. 

The woman laughs, her brown eyes softening, and she makes Agrias eat dinner with her husband and her three children that night. The children babble about some book they have been reading as a family, one filled with dragons and knights, and the youngest turns his gap-toothed smile on Agrias. “D’you know stories about dragons, being a knight and all?”

Agrias shifts uncomfortably in her seat; she is not much of a knight anymore, is she? But she tilts her head to the side and smiles. “I do, in fact. Though, I fear it is not the story you are hoping for.”

The eldest, a girl named Alys, says, “Please, tell us!”

“In a kingdom far away, there was a man and a woman. The man was a templar, an honorary knight of the Church, and he fell deeply in love with the woman. She, too, was smitten with him. For a time, they were happy. However, a dangerous and powerful… wizard fell in love with the woman too, and concocted a plan to separate the lovers. He created a curse to cast upon the templar. However, in order to protect her love, the woman jumped in the way of the spell. She was turned into a dragon with no memory of the woman she had been before.”

The boy gasps. “Did he kill her?”

Agrias smiles. “No. She flew away, to do as dragons do. The majority of her time was spent eating sheep and sleeping. But her love found herand staid by her side, though she was a dragon and did not remember him. Some form of her love for him must have remained, for she never once thought of eating him,” the children laugh, and she waits, before pressing on, “He looked constantly for a way to break the curse. In a far away temple, he found a magical stone that granted his wish, guarded by a fearsome…giant, one who was summoned by the wizard. After a long, ardous fight, the templar freed his love from the curse, and the two of them lived happily ever after.”

The children look at her wide eyes, but the parents laugh, amused by subversion of the common tale.

Days later, when she happens to pass by their house, she hears the boy say, “No, _I_ wanna be the dragon!”

“You can’t be the dragon,” says the middle sister, “The dragon is a girl. I’m gonna be the dragon.”

The three all wave as she passes and Agrias smiles.

* * *

In late summer, Agrias wakes at dawn to someone tapping on her door. She rises, grabs a dagger, then cracks the door open. One of the village girlsstands outside, her hands folded primly before you. She has cropped blonde hair and a slim build, like a single puff of wind could knock her off her feet. “Lady Bryde?” she asks, voice small as she refuses to meet Agrias’s eyes, “Please, my name is Clovia Lagorio. I… I was wondering if… if you would… teach me to fight?”

Agrias blinks, opening the door fully, but before she can say aught in response, Clovia adds, “I have coin. Please.”

“How old are you?” Agrias asks, sheathing her dagger. 

“I… I’m twelve, lady,” she still does not meet Agrias’s eyes, “Please. Please. I’ll learn quickly. I’ll do everything you say. I simply…”

Agrias reaches out, puts a hand atop the girl’s head. “Be easy, Clovia. What need have you to fight?”

“Three years ago, my sister was killed by raiders. I—I wish to know how to defend myself, so I will not… Like her…” she looks up Agrias, jaw jutting out. 

Come to think on it, she has heard some tales of these raiders. Chocobo nomads, whose winter months are spent nearby.They raid infrequently but they are deadly. Agrias nods, steps back to beckon the girl in. As she makes them tea, Agrias asks, “Was there a particular style you wished to learn?” she pauses, “Or weapon?”

“You… You’re going to…? Well, I thought a sword would be… Like you…?” her gaze darts to Agrias’s knight sword in the corner. 

Agrias smiles, encouraging. “I am skilled in the use of many weapons. There is much I can teach you.”

“But… I don’t think I have enough gil to…” Clovia looks down, her face burning, “I don’t have much gil to pay for your time. I could scrounge together more, but my parents… They know nothing of this, lady.”

“I require no payment. As long as I am here and you wish to learn, you have a teacher in me.”

Clovia watches her with wide eyes, as Agrias puts a cup of tea in front of her. “I… I… Thank you, lady. Thank you. Ajora bless.”

It does not make Agrias wince, though her fingers tighten nearly painfully around her own mug. “However, I would ask that you inform your parents,” says Agrias firmly, “We shall begin at dawn in two days time?”

“I… Yes. I will tell them. And should we meet here?” Clovia asks, biting her lip. 

Agrias smiles. “Yes.”

They drink their tea. Clovia tells Agrias about her situation: she is the daughter of the innkeeper and spends most her time helping her family, for a time she went to school in the next town over but it proved to be too expensive, she has two brothers, and she has one friend in town, named Pamela. She asks Agrias about her life, and all Agrias can think to say is, “I grew up in a monastery.”

Clovia waits, as though she expects more, then looks down into her tea in disappointment. “Thank you for the tea, lady. I… I should go home,” she says, and quickly makes her retreat, “I’ll be back soon.”

They begin with the basics. Clovia seems surprised by Agrias’s insistence on hand-to-hand training at first, but as time passes, she comes to enjoy it. When she has reached a sufficient ability—with more training, Agrias thinks, she would be a decent monk, like Nicia—they move to staves. Next is bows, followed by shruiken. She tries to decide what will be next, thinks mayhap they will try guns, if she can locate any. One morning, Clovia brings forth a dagger, asking, “May we try blades?”

Agrias looks down at it, swallows. “Aye,” she says, finally, “I think you are ready.”

As autumn becomes winter, their training suffers, for while the winters here are mild, there are times when snow prevents them for training. However, she finds that many mornings—when the weather is fair enough and Agrias is not elsewhere—more children  come for training. Agrias swallows, but does not send them away. 

By time spring comes, she has nearly a dozen children of varying age and ability. The youngest is ten, the oldest eighteen. She ends up dividing them into groups based upon their abilities, having different groups meet at different times. 

Food begins appearing on her doorstep after that—but she can never catch anyone leaving it.

* * *

Towards the end of spring, she returns from a job in Ordalia to find Orlandu’s holy symbol scratched into the dirt again. When she enters her home, he is seated at her table, fingers steepled. He rises to greet her, but there is no smile upon his face—and she blinks at him. “Orlandu?”

“Agrias… I think you should take a seat,” he watches her gravely, face creased with worry. 

She does sit. If nothing else, she trusts him to know her. Agrias lays her sword on the table, hangs her cloak near the fire so it may dry from the rain. “Ovelia was assassinated. Rumors incriminate Romanda, but I do not know if that is the truth.”

Agrias stares at him, as his lips keep moving with words she does not hear. “Impossible. Delita… Delita said he would…”

“She is gone, Agrias. I was able to confirm at least that. I know nothing else, yet, but I wanted… I wanted you to hear it from me and not from another,” Orlandu clasps one of her hands in both of his, and she finds she is shaking. 

“I—I should not have…” she shakes her head, sucking in a deep breath. 

He pulls her up and then into his arms. Orlandu smells like wet chocobo and rain, and she presses her face hard into his shoulder, until her nose aches from where it gets scrunched against him, and she does know that anyone has ever held her like this, does not think she has ever needed to be held so, but he rocks her gently, his breaths stirring  her hair. And she remembers holding Ovelia like this, when the loneliness of the monastery would strike her, and Ovelia would stand before the altar, face pale. 

(Foolish to think a dagger and a man who was once Ramza’s brother could keep Ovelia safe. Foolish to think Agrias could leave her—)

As she weeps into his shoulder, Orlandu holds her. Once, she thinks he raises a hand to comb fingers through the loose strands of her hair. She is thankful for his presence and that he offers her no platitudes, does not tell her that she bears no blame.

Agrias loses track of how long they remain so. Neither of them sleep that night. He stays a day to ensure she will be fine, makes sure she eats, then leaves with a final hug and his promise that he will return. Orlandu says he will inform her if he finds out more about the assassination. A part of Agrias considers vengeance as her next path, but it will not bring Ovelia back, will it? And she trusts Delita at least to bring the killer to justice. Mayhap her trust in him is misplaced again, but, she thinks as she stares into her tea, he does not strike her as the type to take failure well. Certainly, he has failed to keep Ovelia safe. Surely he will not let the killer walk free.

* * *

After she sees Orlandu off, she goes to the Church. A statue of Ajora stares as Agrias kneels before the altar, but even that does nothing to deter her and she bows her head—and prays.

* * *

For all that Ovelia is dead, life continues onward. Agrias teaches her children with more fervor, cannot help but think if she had only spent more time training Ovelia, she might still live. She also takes more mercenary work, because it is something to do, and anything is better than idleness. Winter comes again, and her children gain more and more skill. Pride is easy and while this is not the life she would have expected for herself, she finds she appreciates her new home.

* * *

In midwinter, raiders strike. They attack at night, riding in on their chocobos. Agrias wakes because she smells fire, and when she runs out of her home, she sees a mounted wizard shooting off fireballs at the buildings. Those townspeople who are not fighters rush out of their homes to put out the fires, while the warriors charge the raiders. Agrias mounts her own chocobo, sword outstretched, and rides out to engage the enemy. There are some two dozen raiders, to their three dozen able fighters. However, Ertil has only herself and two knights that are trained. She dodges an arrow that goes whizzing by her ear, pushes her chocobo harder to get nearer the enemy. She manages to slice one down, but the fight is not going well. The townspeople are being pushed back, the houses are still burning—and she sees one of the raiders scoop up a girl and Agrias—holy power rises in her her, flowing out like a tidal wave, and she kills one of the raiders and his chocobo instantly. 

The wizard points at her, raising his arms to the sky, chanting, and she rides, striking down those raiders who get in her way with lightning strikes, and for all that she knowsthe townspeople will know that she is a holy knight now, will know she is someone to be wary of, it is nice to be using her talents again. The holy power has been a part of her life for nearly as long as she can remember, and it is nice to be herself again, she thinks, as she smites another raider.

Fire sears her and her chocobo rears, warking, and she smites the wizard who has come to her home and destroyed so much. He cries out, falling, while pain has her shaking, the smoke and shock blurring her vision with tears, and she can only barely toss a potion to her chocobo to call him. Agrias downs a potion to quell the pain of her own burns, then attacks what enemies she can. 

Between herself and the others, the raiders are chased off, tails between their legs. All that is left is to bury the dead. Some of their men have died, but most of the casualties belong to the enemy, and Agrias goes to lick her wounds outside her house, away from the prying eyes of the townspeople.

When the fires have been put out and the injured have been tended, the healer woman comes to her. “We saw what you did,” she says, nodding at where Agrias’s sword is laying beside her, as Agrias sits, her back resting against her house. “You are not who you say you are.”

“I am not,” Agrias says, staring down at her hands, scoured of the blood she spilt this night. 

The woman nods, shaking with the exertion of all her healing. “Regardless, your actions saved many people this night. So, we thank you again, Lady Bryde.”

Agrias can only blink at her. “I am a wanted woman.Surely it would be better if I…”

“It is your choice,” she says, but she smiles at Agrias, “But you have only helped us. Regardless of what has happened, regardless of the power you hold, you have been good to us. And for that, we are grateful. I think the children would sorely miss you, were you to leave.”

And mayhap—mayhap she should not stay in this town she has claimed, mayhap it is dangerous because she is a heretic, because she has distinctive abilities, because someone might recognize her, but she cannot think of another place she would rather be. She can, however, think of people she would like to be here with her. Agrias sucks in a breath, manages to whisper her thanks. 

After everyone scattered, she had never thought she would find a home again—because camp had been her home, with all of them, it had been her first home, and she had thought she could never replace it—and, well, she cannot replace it, but she can find something perhaps as good.

* * *

Spring comes again, and she comes home one day after training the children to find Mustadio sleeping in her bed, again. She sits down in her chair, watching the even rise and fall of his breath as he rests. When she lights the fire to make dinner, he finally stirs. “Agrias,” he yawns out, “Meant to come sooner, after I heard about… How are you?”

“Well. And you?” she half-turns to smile at him. 

Mustadio stands, then stretches, joints popping and he winces. “Pretty good. Ran into some bandits who were really… um. Persistent. But I’m good—drank some potions, slept in a really comfortable bed owned by this great lady I know—“ and he stops, flushing. 

All Agrias can do is laugh, and Mustadio laughs too, his flush deepening “What have you done since last we saw each other?” she asks as she prepares a lamb stew.

He winces, looking down at his feet. “I meant… I meant to be here when… I was helping Ramza and Alma out, and by time… Well, I’m here now.”

“I did not intend to pass blame. Merely, I wished to know where you had traveled.”

So, as he assists her with dinner, he tells her about finding Ramza and Alma, about how they had been traveling regularly since everyone had separated five years ago, how Mustadio had helped them escape into Romanda, how he had found the wings of some ancient airship. He tells her that, through help from Dyana, he had managed to get most of the parts he had accumulated back to his father. “Indeed, that must have pleased him,” she says, as they sit down to eat. 

“What about you? You’ve put down roots here… What have your adventures been like?”

“I have… been teaching the children how to fight,” she looks up at the ceiling, “As well as taking mercenary work.”

“Teaching kids…? That’s pretty great, Agrias… Maybe you should introduce me to them?”

“I think they would like that.”

They settle into a rhythm, just as they did before. He helps teach the children magick, while she teaches them the martial skills. They take turns making dinner; he comes with her for mercenary jobs, or she assists him with finding more machine parts. Towards the end of spring, when he has been with her for over a month, he asks, “Maybe we could make a shed in the backyard? So I’m not cluttering up the house with parts? Or maybe we could make me a workshop?”

And she blinks at him, once, twice, then nods. 

* * *

So in the summer, they build him a workshop. He never mentions leaving and she is glad to have him, so life simply continues on as it always has, the two of them together. Mayhap there are many things they have lost, but there have been gains, as well.


End file.
